


Baby Hold Me

by Sevent



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Anal Fingering, Convenient Lube, Hand Jobs, Handcuffed Together, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Sex Pollen, Slightly Snowed In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-14 21:01:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13598304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sevent/pseuds/Sevent
Summary: Joker's hit face first with Ivy’s mind control toxin but it backfires. Sort of.





	Baby Hold Me

**Author's Note:**

> So much has happened in the past few months this went into the back burner. But here it is. Sex pollen, handcuffed together, and (slightly) snowed in: all my favorite tropes in one fic. Enjoy!

Batman's had a nasty couple of nights this week, and the hailstorm currently battering against the windshield spells disaster. He’s driving blind, guided only by the GPS imaging screen at the dashboard. But the storm isn’t the problem, no. Poison Ivy, of all people, decided January was the perfect month to debut a new breed of psychotropic orchids.

So far it’s been a contained event. The History Museum downtown opened an exhibition on rare plant specimens and unknowingly presented one of Ivy’s pets: a large, creeping tangle of roots and flowers that spat out clumps of dusty pollen, putting whoever got close enough to inhale the particles under her control. But a freak storm hit that same day, something not at all strange in Gotham by now, so instead of a packed house on opening night, many of the guests and attendees decided to stay at home. 

When the news dropped a few hours later, nineteen victims had already been reported hospitalized—with police supervision. They kept fighting back and trying to escape, screaming about how ‘Mother' needed their help. Connecting the dots to Ivy was easy, and whatever this new mind control formula is, it packs a lasting punch. 

As soon as the first ambulance took off, Gordon took charge of the scene, putting the museum on quarantine while the hail was still light. Ivy, presumably, had taken shelter there with her remaining dutiful servants. The pollen couldn’t spread while the storm raged on, so Batman had a window of opportunity to mix a cocktail of chemicals that would neutralize its effects before it all went to hell. 

Twenty-four hours later, the first victims of the plant were being treated at Gotham General, but the hailstorm was slowing down the antidote’s distribution. And Ivy was still on the loose. He needs to catch her and kill off the source of the pollen now before she has a chance to disappear and try again another time, after the storm passes. 

When Batman arrives at the museum, vines pouring out of the broken windows and closing off the entrances covered in yellow tape, he spares a moment to fasten a rebreather tight around the exposed part of his face. The weather might have swept off most of the dust by now, but he’s not taking any risks. 

Hail smacks him in greeting when he leaves the safe comfort of his car. It’s a rough few minutes spent in the storm but he gets inside quickly enough and scours the place for any signs of the redhead menace. He doesn’t find any on the first floor, though he can hear the faint echo of a girlish laugh coming from somewhere in the west wing, where the exhibition took place. 

It sounds nothing like Ivy, and that gives him pause. According to Gordon’s report, there are about six, maybe seven people in the building under the effects of Ivy's dust. He’ll have to be careful. Any one of them could alert Ivy of his arrival, or worse, serve as shields.

Just as he's about to climb the stairs to the exhibit, someone grabs him by the cape and yanks, _hard._ His first instinct is to sweep the floor and drive his fist back, ready to knock out the assailant with his next strike. But then he sees the purple shade of the coat and falters. That unmistakable color. 

Joker grunts from the impact with the ground and in seeing Batman’s surprised look, he smiles wide, all teeth and split lip staining his mouth red. Oh, the Bat's face may be entirely covered but Joker knows what that wrinkle in the cowl means.

_“Well,_ hello to you too, Bats.”

“Joker.” He receives a trademark giggle for an answer. “What are you doing here?” 

The clown runs the tip of his tongue over the broken skin and hums, quite unimpressed with the sudden squaring of the vigilante’s shoulders. 

“Believe it or not, darling, you’re not the only one who’s got a _bone_  to pick with nature’s nutcase. Care to give a helpless interloper like me a hand?”

Bruce scoffs, as if Joker could ever be anything close to _helpless._ He stays right where he is and waits until the Joker’s grin falls into a pout, waits another beat while the clown gets up by himself with a grumbled complaint about manners. 

Once he’s up, the man shakes his winter long coat free of wrinkles, pats his sides and his shoulders down and the display of it all is so unnecessary it makes Bruce clench his teeth hard in irritation. Joker turns to him and—of all the things he could do, he starts droning on about his business with Ivy. 

“I’d leave you to do your hobby and all, but there’s a code to be respected around here and little Miss Jungle Gym thinks she _owns_  the damned place! I mean, she went and took _my_ henchmen from me, with her ugly plants! They drool all over her now! How am I supposed to get stuff done around here? With my own two hands?”

Joker pulls a face and it tears his split lip further, turning it into a bloody mess. He carries on unbothered as the Bat stands there with his arms crossed and half-listening, eyes trained on the Joker’s every tic and jerk of exaggerated hand gestures.

Bruce is...not quite sure what he’s supposed to do now that he’s got another rogue to manage. Joker’s been under the radar lately, no doubt waiting for the perfect moment to cause a bit of panic. Should he just arrest him now? Knock him out? 

Briefly, he entertains the idea of using the Joker’s resentment to capture Ivy, but he knows it wouldn’t work, not for long. He has no time to waste on pretty-sounding offers anyway, so he grabs the jittery man by the scruff of his neck and shakes him a little to get his attention. 

Joker stops mid-sentence and looks up at the Bat. 

“What?”

“I don’t care if you lost your gang of idiots. You’re not doing _anything_ on my watch. Ivy’s mine so  _stay, out,_  of my way. Or I’m coming after you next.”

Big green eyes blink at him with the most innocent of expressions. “Oh, of course, Batsy, _baby._ Anything you say! I wouldn’t _dream_  of getting in the way of your vengeful fists brewing up a storm!” 

That sickly-sweet voice is starting to grate on his nerves and it shows when he starts growling low by reflex. The fat grin sliding up the Joker's cheeks tells him that’s exactly the kind of reaction the clown wanted. 

That same grin stiffens when a handcuff closes over his left wrist.

“Really Bats?” Joker shakes his freshly-cuffed hand, unimpressed. “That's your plan to stop me?”

Then Bruce closes the other cuff on his _own_  wrist and _that_  makes the clown twitch. He notices how Joker eyes the cuffs, testing the strength of the chain and how the metal digs into his skin if he pulls too hard. There’s a challenge in his glare, but there’s no way to get free without a key or after enough tinkering that will doubtless warn the Batman of his intentions. 

The Joker frowns. He doesn’t like this predicament. 

Bruce lets him pout for a bit longer—savoring the hint of indignation he can see in the clown’s eyes—before mounting the stairs two silent steps at a time, tugging the Joker off balance in the process. 

The man yelps, landing awkwardly on his free hand while the rest of him is dragged upwards by the Bat’s unrelenting pull. For all the inconvenience this is becoming, Bruce can’t help the small burst of spiteful satisfaction he feels, seeing the Joker so disheveled and clumsy. He knows how much pride the man puts in appearances. 

As they reach the second floor, he picks up muffled bits of a conversation. The unknown woman from before and a young man, both of which he can see sitting cheerfully by a canopy of moss green leaves. Museum guards. That’s two missing people he can call in later.

A giggle breaks out just behind his ear and he has to hold back from delivering a vicious punch to the Joker's face again. The two civilians didn’t hear it, _this_ time, and Bruce wants to refrain from stopping every ten seconds because the damned madman can’t keep his mouth shut. 

Batman shoots the clown a firm look. “If you don’t want to spend the rest of the night unconscious, shut. Up.“ 

The Joker stares at him for a long pause, so tempted to protest _loudly,_  but he mimics a salute and lets the moment go. Bruce tallies it as a win. 

“Good. Now follow my lead.”

“Right, uh, who am I to refuse?” He jangles the handcuff and—well, now Bruce feels silly for even giving that order. 

“Just keep your arm relaxed. And _stay quiet_ for once.”

“Ooh,” the Joker croons, but true to the Bat's demands, his voice doesn’t go higher than a whisper. "And if I’m a good boy, will I get a reward?” 

He doesn’t bother with an answer and instead bends forward to hide from sight. Joker does the same behind him and they continue, undetected, heading to the end of the hall. Bruce spots a growing mass of vines extending from there, so he pauses by the roots taking hold of the walls. Knowing Ivy, it leads directly to her nest. 

He readies a concentrated herbicide, custom-made for the new plant, and tells the Joker to get behind him.

“That’s real chivalrous of you Bats, but _really._ I’m not scared of a walking tree stump with curves and attitude."

“It’s not her you need to be worried about—”

“Yes, yes, I know. Her man-eating ‘babies'. Ugh.” The Joker scrunches his face into a scowl and nudges the Bat to keep walking. “Burn them down already, would you?"

As if summoned by the threat, two thick branches coil out of the exhibition room and lash at them, piercing the wall right where Joker’s head used to be, if it hadn’t been for Bruce pulling him out of the way. 

_“You!”_ More branches and winding vines surge out of the room as an angry cry echoes into the hall. “You _dare_ threaten _my_ children!” 

A red mane of hair soon joins the twisting green vines, her face full of fury and—there, right by her legs, are the roots of the enhanced orchids, covered with fat flower buds and long white stems. Bruce quickly angles himself in a way that hides the herbicide behind his cape, so close to his target. He doesn’t want to give himself away too soon, not when he can kill the pesky plant while Ivy zeroes in on the Joker. But then the Bat remembers that while he has a mask to protect him from the dust, Joker _doesn’t._  

And the maniac doesn’t even think about it when he opens his big mouth to mock the woman. 

“Oh _boo-hoo_ , did I hurt your little shrub’s _feelings?_ I wasn’t aware they _had_ any.”

Bruce has never seen Ivy’s face glow red with blind rage before—he spares some sympathy for her, Joker does have that effect on people—but then her vines quiver to strike and he moves to block the hit. 

The chain of the cuffs rattles and Ivy blinks. Her eyes flick down to their joined wrists as the Joker starts whining, her expression morphing into something derisive.

The vines droop as she says, “Cute,” with a pointed stare, and Bruce forgets to shove his cape in Joker’s direction to shield him from the dust. He just—a protest stutters his thoughts to a halt, and Ivy, well aware of the Batman’s full mask and the Joker’s exposed face, flicks her fingers forward with a smirk. 

Joker’s just about to pull his handgun on the redhead—and clash his and the Bat’s fists together in the process, goddamned _cuffs—_ when a mustard-yellow cloud pours from the roots and blooms in great doses. It saturates the air with dust too fast for the Bat’s liking and the Joker _laughs_ at his side, of all things. 

“Listen, Red, you think that little mist of yours is going to affect _me?"_

He keeps on laughing, irritating Ivy to the point of lashing out because the toxin isn’t working like it’s supposed to. Joker is not, in fact, under her control after breathing in lungfuls of the dust, and that’s _impossible._ Even for someone like him, with his messed up biochemical balance, it should _work._

She’s aiming straight for the clown now, the wicked gleam in her eye spelling murder. Of course, Joker takes that as an invitation. He starts firing at the vines and relishes in the squeals they make. 

And Bruce, quite literally in the middle of this battle, questions the effectiveness of the cuffs as the Joker gets tangled up by a stray vine and they’re both hauled forward. 

“I’m going to rip you to shreds for that, _clown,”_ Isley snarls right in his pasty-white face.

Batman, however, escapes her rage completely, her whole _notice._ So while the Joker gives a lopsided smile and spits out, “Take your best shot, Pammy, I’m yawning,” he takes that opportunity to deliver a shot of herbicide right by her feet, where the modified plant keeps coughing up more layers of dust. 

It shrinks in on itself for a second before _screeching,_ Ivy screaming with it as it bloats up and blackens. She lets her grip on the Joker go to hastily hop down from her dying baby, murmuring sweet things to the flowers. She can’t do anything for it now. The venom is already starting to turn it to mulch. 

The Bat rears back, batarangs flying through the smoky air and slicing the vines that sprout towards them. Ivy looks up from the dead plant, the fog thickening until he can barely make out her features. 

“You’ll pay for that, _Batman,”_ she promises, disappearing from sight, and he swears under his breath. There must be another one of her plants creating that smokey mist. He throws a few more batarangs when the vines start knotting themselves together, creating a barrier between them. But it’s no use. She’ll be gone by the time he cuts through it. 

A cough brings his attention to the Joker who, Bruce realizes, is busy clinging to his cape to stay upright. 

“Ugh, stinks 'ere.” He shudders from another cough. 

The smoke. And worse yet, the _dust._ Bruce has no idea if the clown is truly as immune as he says he is, or if there’s another side effect he’ll have to look out for. They need fresh air.

He immediately grabs the clown by the waist and—“ _Ow_ —hand! _Hand!"—_ twists the Joker’s arm behind his back by accident. The cuffs are becoming a bother, more trouble than they’re worth suffering. 

The Bat makes the mistake of letting go of the Joker to search for the key, which in turn makes the clown stumble back right onto him in another coughing fit. He loses his grip on the key and hears it clatter to the floor, losing sight of it in the mist. 

“Uh, _hrm,_  I hope that,” the Joker wheezes out, “hope that wasn’t what I think it was.” 

“That’s..." Bruce sighs. No use getting mad now. “It’s not an issue. I have a spare.” In the car, he doesn’t say. And if he loses that one too, he’ll break open the cuff himself. 

But first, air. He grabs the Joker again—with his _free_ hand—to keep him steady. It’s an awkward shuffle, and there’s no comfortable way to do this but needs must. With a grunt, Bruce tosses the clown over his shoulder in a secure hold and heads for the lower floors as quickly as he can. And he _knows_ something is wrong when the Joker remains quiet. 

He spares a moment to think about the guards, stepping into the adjacent room over tuffs of grass and leaves, but finds no one there. 

Gone. Bruce grits his teeth under the rebreather and continues faster on his way down. They must have gone after Ivy, if they’re still under her control. Following her lead to another hideout under the storm. That’s something else he’s going to worry about until Isley’s caught. 

Bruce can’t help but blame himself. He should have done something. Tied them up, knocked them unconscious, placed a tracer on them. Any of the things he would have normally done, if he hadn’t been distracted by the Joker. 

The first floor is cool and free of the mist so he lays the clown down in the main hall, thinking he must have passed out. 

A groan tells him otherwise and, he’s honestly surprised. Checking the Joker’s pulse, Bruce finds it too high for his liking. Something is definitely not right. 

“Joker?” He receives a weak answer. “Joker, can you sit up?"

It takes the clown a few tries, and for this, Bruce starts worrying. He knows well enough that while the Joker has a good resistance to poisons and toxins, his body reacts differently to them compared to the average human being. He recalls vividly how one of Scarecrow’s stronger batches of fear toxin had given the clown migraines, something Crane found infinitely more amusing than expected. Bruce has no idea what to prepare for.

The Joker blinks up at him from his seated position, looking drugged out of his mind, even _surprised_ to see the Batman crouching right there. As if he hadn’t just spent the last twenty minutes handcuffed to the vigilante.

“Hey, Bats.” He sways slightly and frowns. “Did you say something?”

“I’m taking you to a hospital,” Bruce decides and lifts the Joker to his unsteady feet.

“What! Why?” 

“You’re,” he pauses, not sure himself how to define the clown’s current state. Drugged? Sick? 

“I’m hot. Can you crack open a window?"

Then the clown starts fanning himself with his cuffed hand, rattling the chain with each flick of his wrist. Hot, he says, in the middle of a hailstorm. 

Bruce stops the movement with a well-timed jerk of his arm, and brings his other hand up to tilt the Joker face around for closer inspection. There’s a bit of color in his pale cheeks, and even covered up in that big coat, suit and gloves, the temperature is too low for that to be possible. Not when there’s no wind inside the building to make that happen. 

His face feels fever hot already, even through the thickness of his gloves. Not a good sign at all. 

Joker stares at the Bat with a dazed grin. “You know,” he says with a long drawl, “I feel _great,_ actually. What was _in_ that plant?"

“Joker, I’m going to carry you again.” He sees Joker’s eyes widen, the giddy look in them, and holds back a sigh. He might as well be talking to an excitable dog right now. 

“I need you conscious,” the Bat adds. “No dozing off. Understand?"

Bruce waits for a nod and once he gets it—an enthusiastic one—he curls his uncuffed arm behind the Joker’s thighs and lifts the drugged clown up with much more care than last time. 

Immediately an arm wraps around his shoulders and a chin collides with his nose from the shift in balance. He’s lucky he’s got the rebreather on or that would have been a lot more painful on his part. 

Purple fabric and yellow ribbons block half his sight, but it’s a manageable inconvenience. 

The front doors are still barred by vines so the Bat maps out the accessible side entrances. A skylight is an option he can’t currently take, not while shifting the Joker’s weight on his left flank. And it’s a strange weight, Bruce reckons. Lighter than anticipated. It shouldn’t be so easy to carry him, not with the kind of power Joker packs in each of his punches, the kinds of punches Joker can _take_ and shrug aside like they’re nothing. Is he malnourished? He’ll put aside those concerns for now. Once he finds a proper doctor, he’ll find out. 

The Bat paces the floor hastily in search of a clear exit and finds most of the exhibits have been left untouched by Ivy’s plants. Busting through a floor-length window shouldn’t cause much trouble. Bruce Wayne can arrange a heartfelt donation for repairs as a known art enthusiast once the night is over. 

“Mmm, wher’we going now, Bats?” Joker mutters happily against the Bat's cowl. His legs are wound tight around Batman's waist, ankles crossed and digging into kevlar armor. It's quite a delightful arrangement, their bodies pressed close with not an inch of space between them. Chest to chest and face to—bat-ear, he guesses. Joker's whole world is swaying with each step so he might be wrong about that. Oh, and it’s a _snug_ feeling. That arm of his swung around the Bat’s firm shoulders. A thumb _right_ at the junction between thigh and backside, making him want to squirm. He’s beginning to go limp, chest buzzing with something warm like he downed an entire bottle of whisky. 

Bruce feels the Joker wiggle _closer_ somehow, but pays it no mind. “Just hold on,” he says, and shatters a window at a safe distance. 

The icy gust of snow that comes after is weaker than when he’d entered, a good sign. Crossing the museum to the batmobile took a little over a minute, and judging by how tense the Joker is when they’re both safely inside, he’s no longer overheating. 

At least the cuff is on the Bat's _right_ wrist, it makes seating the clown at the passenger’s side easier. 

He’s taking off his rebreather and looking for the spare key when he notices how the Joker’s curling in on himself and stops, suddenly overcome with worry. 

“Joker?” Bruce checks his pulse again. Still fever high, even after the brisk walk to the car. There’s sweat clinging to his pale neck this time, and when he lifts the Joker’s face, Bruce sees just how blown his pupils are. That can’t be good.

The slight touch also seems to cause him pain, a weak sound coming from the Joker's mouth. Bruce moves to pull his hand back but the second he tries, Joker pushes himself closer to the contact with surprising strength and plasters a colored cheek to the offered palm. 

“Bats,” he murmurs against the rough texture of the glove and presses his face harder against it despite the discomfort he’s clearly showing. 

It’s such a curious reaction, Bruce briefly wonders if the Joker’s condition is worse than he imagines. But then he squeezes his fingers and Joker _jerks his hips upwards_ and, well. Bruce realizes the clown is not moaning in pain.

His whole body tenses up and a doubtless bright red blush creeps up his face, hidden by the dim lighting in the car. The Joker is, aroused. And nuzzling the Bat’s palm.

Bruce stares in pure shock and snaps the limb back to his side, watching in horror as a _real_ expression of pain overcomes the Joker’s features. 

What is he supposed to do? Strap Joker into his seat and wait until the toxin leaves his system? That could take hours, hours he can’t waste as a sitting duck in the middle of a snowstorm. 

He tenses further at the hand crawling up his back and the force it exerts pushes him off balance into Joker’s seat, head smacking into green hair. 

Joker sounds quite pleased with himself and the two-hundred pounds of Bat fumbling over him. He’s slightly hindered by the cuffs but Joker manages to twist their position until _he’s_ the one fumbling over the Bat, cozy warm instead of suffocated under heat. 

“Joker! You—“ Bruce stiffens when the clown slides his lips over the edge of the mask, on his jaw. “You’re not in your right mind. Stop it.”

“Really,” he says somewhere between a groan and a drawn out sigh. “And what’s my ‘right’ mind, Bats?” 

“Not…this,” he grits out and leans away from the Joker's seeking mouth.

“Batsy, _baby,”_ Joker breathes out, mind going blank as his hips grind against armor plates. He’s having a hard time concentrating past his needs right now. “Don’t…uh, don't pretend this is a new side of me.”

I know, he doesn’t say. Bruce isn’t blind to the Joker’s _special_ attention. The heated stares, the exaggerated panting. Those barely-concealed erections at the end of a fight. As the Bat, he's gotten very good at ignoring them. 

This level of concentrated attention, however, is much harder to ignore. 

“Joker, _listen_ to me,” but the clown is too busy trying to glue himself to the batsuit's front to listen, so he grabs Joker by the hips and holds him at arm’s length. He can think better that way.

“Ivy’s pollen,” Bruce tries to reason. “It’s affecting you. You’re not in control of your body.”

If only the Joker would pay attention to his _words,_ they might find a way to solve this problem. Instead, Joker’s struggling to move closer and failing. It doesn’t help that he's looking worse with every minute, face flushed red and sweat dripping down his brow. That winter coat can’t possibly be helping.

“Bats, just _do_ something. I’m _dying_ here.“ 

“You’re not dying, you’re running a fever,” he says lightly, but the possibility of that happening makes him nervous. “Hold still. I’m getting the cuffs off.” 

There’s no complaint, no resistance as he cups the clown’s wrist—and, really, Bruce should have known Joker was being _too_ cooperative, because the instant the chain drops, the Joker pins him down and starts wiggling out of his coat, slowly working himself free of his clothing, _completely_ uncaring of his ever-increasing nakedness or what his company thinks of it.

“Joker! What are you—“ 

He freezes. Cold hands dig into the exposed part of his face. It’s not a tender touch. There’s blunt nails scratching at the stubble already forming on his chin, but it feels…careful. Like Joker doesn’t want to leave red welts behind. 

Joker’s much too busy relishing the cool air against his skin to notice the slight shift in the Bat’s breathing. 

Everything above his waist—all except for a half-unbuttoned shirt—sits on the dashboard now. The coat, the purple suit and vest, even his gloves, thrown aside without a second thought. He stretches over the Bat and lets out a shaky groan as he runs his fingers over what little warm skin he can find. 

The contact helps, a little. It lights his nerves on fire, sure, and that crisp smell of plastic and unmistakable bat-musk is making him painfully hard, but he can _think_ again. It’s better than the blind haze of arousal he was feeling a moment ago. 

“Oh, yes. Much better.” He licks a stripe over the bat symbol and hums. _“Much_ better.” 

"I’m sure it is,” Bruce grits out. 

“Come on, Bats! Don’t you see? _This_ is what I need.” 

Bruce all but chokes when the Joker strips out of his pants. The tight pair of green briefs underneath leaves nothing to the imagination and all that pale and scarred skin is making him delirious. He’s sweating under the armor. 

But Bruce is resilient to the point of pigheaded stubbornness. “What you need,” Joker’s pupils flare wide, “is medical attention.” 

“Oh, come _on,_ Batsy. This whole ‘virtuous' routine is getting old! Just fuck this toxin out of me. Simple and easy. Pretty please?” 

For a second, Bruce truly considers it. Out here, possibly trapped in the storm, he could forget the night and his duties for once. Take out his frustration on the clown in a different way. 

But no, he can't. This is the _Joker_ perched on his lap and there are so many reasons why he shouldn’t listen to him. 

So Bruce takes a deep breath and does his best to shut down that annoying urge to do what the Joker asks for anyway. _He’s_ not the one who was hit with a brick ton of pollen. 

Joker can see the resolve written in his face and pouts. 

“Oh, _fine._ I can take care of myself."

This, Bruce will remember later, is the precise moment he lost the fight. Right there on his lap, Joker peels back his briefs and takes himself in hand, mewling into the Bat’s neck. Bruce can’t see what he’s doing because of the angle, but, _by God,_ he doesn’t need to. The sound Joker makes will be imprinted into his mind for the rest of his life. 

_"Pretty please,_ Bats," Joker shivers once, either from the cool air inside the car or the quick jerk movements of his hand over his cock. Bruce’s eyes almost cross. He’s never heard Joker beg like that before. Teasing, yes. But not with full-blown arousal dripping from his tongue.

_Oh God_ , Bruce thinks as his hands involuntarily clamp harder onto Joker’s sides and he earns a soft, trembling sound for it. 

He has other options. None of them involve pressing Joker closer, but that’s what he ends up doing.

“Yes—that’s it,” Joker breathes against the crease in the suit that joins cape with kevlar, rocking forward with a dazed look in his eyes. Muscles jump as the Bat’s rough gloves move from side to back, catching stray droplets of sweat. He’s actually surprised Bats would play along. 

And boy, does his Batsy not hold _back._ Joker has an instant to register the hands slide down just an inch—a very tempting, promising inch—before they’re brought up, all the way to his hair, the back of his neck, _squeezing._

He gasps, hips thrusting uselessly, and one of those sweet, thick gloves slips down his neck and joins the one Joker’s kept in a vice around his cock. 

It’s a much more gentle hold than he’s used to, even with the catches in the gauntlet creating delicious friction. But everything feels unbearable, his skin taut and electrified with every touch. It’s confusing, both too much all at once and not _enough._  

Batman angles his body back in a deceivingly careless manner. A deliberate move to force space between them and pull Joker off balance, hands coming up to the Bat’s shoulders to keep himself upright. 

“Hey—"

“If we’re doing this, we do it _my_ way.” The bat-growl sounds somehow more intense, though that might just be his own skewed senses. His body responds just as eagerly as if it were a real threat, pulse raising, heating him to an almost uncomfortable degree. 

Joker nods through the sudden realization that the Bat’s hand hasn’t moved from its place on his dick. 

With his mind set to the task, Bruce starts pumping in a brisk rhythm, working to get the Joker off as quickly as possible. He could do this. Maybe. There isn't enough information for him to know with any certainty that release would solve their—Joker’s—little problem. 

The clown says it is ‘helping’, and Bruce chooses to believe him. He really should have just driven out of there while he could to the nearest hospital instead of stopping to check on the damned clown’s fever. 

Quick tapping against his cowl brings Bruce out of his reverie. 

“H-Hello in there.” A red mouth overtakes his vision. “Having thoughts now, Batsy? Don’t put out on me now."

Annoyed, he gives a hard squeeze and watches as the Joker’s eyes glaze over, looking straight through him. He squeezes again for good measure and savors the drawn out moan it causes. 

_"Fuck,_ Bats." Joker grips those broad shoulders tighter and bites his bruised lip, opening the split there once more. Like this, he looks a proper mess, green hair mussed up and sweaty, panting, blood leaving smudges over his face. 

Bruce licks the lips free of blood before he’s even aware of moving. He’s licking _Joker’s lips_. 

“Jo—“

Those lips come back for another taste and Bruce does nothing but accept it. His hand still busies itself to give the Joker the release he needs, but as the seconds tick by, he quickly comes to the conclusion it's not leading anywhere. 

And Joker notices too. He _whines,_ desperately close but unable to come. 

“Not. _Working.”_ Bruce can hear the frustration in his voice turn sour. “Bats, it’s _not working!_ I— _ugh_ —I need something _more."_

More? What else can he do? Does he need more stimulation? The only other thing Bruce can think of that would do that is—

His face warms just thinking about it.

Joker is too preoccupied thrashing petulantly in the Bat’s arms to notice a look he would no doubt find adorable. He does, however, notice when the gloved hand perched on his neck trails downward on a path he appreciates. And Joker demonstrates as much by spreading his thighs on Bruce’s lap. 

The hand freezes before it can reach his backside.

“Now, Batsy, don’t be shy.”

Bruce can only scoff as he pulls his arms back, making the clown narrow his eyes. But then the gauntlets come off and Joker perks up instantaneously. 

Hot palms brush against the skin on his naked back with enough strength to make him hiss. And Joker _loves_ it. The gloves offered a nice, natural roughness, much like the rest of the suit, but this is a _hundred_ times better. 

He all but melts at the kneading pressure those glorious hands start over his backside, a distracted twitch of Bruce’s fingers while he figures out what's next.

There’s lubricant in a small compartment of his belt, one of the rarer tools of the job that come in handy at the strangest times. Like now. Bruce pours some of it over two fingers and, hesitates. 

“It’s fine, y’know. I’m _clean,"_ Joker says dissolving into giggles. 

It does nothing to reassure him. In fact, Joker’s choice of words confuses him further.

“Oh, you know what I mean, Bats.” He takes Bruce’s slicked hand and places it in the swell of one cheek with a smile. “I make sure I'm _always_ ready for a gentleman caller. It pays off to be prepared!” 

“That’s—not what I,” Bruce stutters. He honest-to-god stutters because that’s the least of what he expected Joker to say. 

He has to stop himself from imagining Joker preparing himself, _daily,_ for—him? For other men? The twinge of discomfort he feels at the latter catches him off-guard. And Joker must sense it, see it written on his face. Why else would Joker's smile soften, murmuring, “No one will be as good as you, darling."

His face warms again, and this time Joker gets to see the cute pinch of skin at the corner of Bruce’s mouth. 

Joker opens his mouth to say something about it when the Bat pushes one finger all the way to the last knuckle in him. 

He’s given little time to adjust beyond rocking back on the Bat’s hand when another finger joins the first, not so much stretching as searching for his prostate. Methodical as always. 

He’s not as bothered when the Bat _does_ find it, his whole body tensing from the shock of pleasure in what would normally be uncomfortable. 

The fingers pull out of him for a second and he protests, he can take whatever the Bat gives him, but then he’s flipped to face the hood of the car and the words die on his lips as the Bat’s touch returns to his cock _and_ his ass. 

“Better?” Batman has the gal mutter right next to his ear, the deep drum of his voice sending a hot shiver down his spine all the way to his crotch.

And it _is_ better. He can rest his back against warmed plates of armor and lift his feet to the dash—not to purposely bother Bats, this is just _such_ a better angle. His body moves without him telling it to, gripping the Bat’s wrists and pushing him for more, harder, faster. But Bats won’t _listen._ He goes hard, but slow, kneading instead of bruising. 

Joker _wheezes_ as Batman gives that sensitive spot jammed up his ass a drawn out massage. His eyes water from the hot, pinprick sensation creeping up his body, the rest of him twisted in opposite directions and if he bends his neck any more he swears it’s going to snap. He’s going to die because of an orgasm. Delirious with pleasure he thinks, this is what Ivy wanted all along. 

Bruce, on the other hand, concentrates on breathing. He times each inhale with the rhythm of his hands, oblivious to all else. Seeing past Joker’s shoulder will only make him lose what little grip he has on his control. 

So he closes his eyes and ignores anything that isn’t the tremor of Joker’s frame against him. Judges how close he is by the stiffness of his muscles. 

“Bats—I’m,” Joker clenches _hard_ on his hand and Bruce already knows what he’s going to say. “I’m—"

“Shut up.” He works his hand faster on Joker’s cock until it spurts over his knuckles and even then he pumps a few more times, sucking a hoarse whimper out of Joker’s swollen lips. 

Slowly, Bruce draws his hands back and lets out a sigh. It’s done, he thinks. Now they can move on. He can pretend this night never happened. 

But then, as he watches Joker’s chest rise and fall, Bruce dares to look farther down. Where a bright red erection still stands, mocking him with its continuing existence. 

_“Hell,”_ the Bat whispers, “Don’t tell me it’s not over.”

Joker’s next cough sounds suspiciously like a laugh. “Okay...I won’t.”

Unbelievable. 

“Alright, alright, so It’s _not_ over,” the clown keeps on tittering, shifting his legs back and forth and tapping fingers on his sticky chest. 

Bruce withholds from wriggling in his seat as Joker twists around and cranes his neck back to eye him. The cup protecting his groin is uncomfortably tight, and there’s absolutely _no way_ Joker could tell through the layers of polymer fiber. 

And yet. 

And yet Joker smiles at him with that knowing tilt of his head and presses down on Batman’s cup. He hisses from the sudden spark of pain, not altogether unpleasant. Something that makes his pulse spike when Joker does it again and he can’t stop his hips from rushing forward. 

“Y’know Batsy," Joker pauses to consider, “I think you need this more than _I_ do. Whaddaya say we get little B to join the party?"

And _fuck_ if his cock doesn’t give an ill-timed throb at the suggestion. He doesn’t squirm, doesn’t open his mouth on the off-chance he’ll say something embarrassing. Doesn’t even _breathe._ And Joker takes the silence as a challenge. 

All at once, bare legs pin him to the plush chair. There’s a white hand dancing just along his peripheral vision, petting the edges of the cowl, and it’s distracting enough that he doesn’t notice what Joker’s doing elsewhere. 

“Ah well, alright,” Joker whispers with a suspiciously casual wave of his hand. “If that’s how you want to play it, Bats. Let’s _play.”_  

Bruce is utterly unprepared for when Joker shifts all of his weight to the single hand hovering over his crotch. Even more so when Joker shifts the cup two centimeters inward and unlatches the safety lock. 

_The safety lock,_ he realizes with matching dread and excitement. 

“How did you—“ 

He’s cut off by that crafty little hand slipping past the guard and into his briefs. Naturally, Bruce tenses, the cool nip of fingers too jarring for those first few seconds to bring him any pleasure. 

He’d forgotten how hot he was under the armor, trapped beneath Joker’s warmed body and layers of mesh to protect against the cold season. More cumbersome in this scenario than helpful, really. Now that he’s got a hand on him, the suit feels like a barrier compressing on all his sides. 

“Joker,” he says for no other reason than to say _something._ Again warmed fingers squeeze and stroke faster, harder, urging him to push back, buck, scratch at pale skin until a steady mantra of broken syllable protests is all Bruce can form. 

As the Bat sinks further into himself, Joker watches him devoutly. This is something he wants to commit to memory, something to remember when he’s locked back in Arkham wearing a straightjacket two sizes too small. _This…_ this _vulnerable_ image of his Bat, face and body contorted in reluctant pleasure. He feels lightheaded. 

“Oh, if only you could see yourself,” Joker whispers with a trembling voice. "The things I’d let you _do_ to me.”

He gasps when a hand clamps down on his wrist with bruising force. The Bat stares at him now, breathing heavy through his mouth and the pure Heat in that glare makes his mouth water.

Then Batman locks his other arm around Joker’s backside and drags him fully onto his lap. 

“Oh,” is all he can mutter as the Bat grips his dick again, this time pressed hot against Batman’s own.

It’s too tight, which feels _perfect_ in his current high. From his position, Joker can’t do anything except take whatever pace is set for them. He couldn't even complain if he tried. Quick, hard strokes follow each downward twist of the Bat’s wrist and it leaves him breathless, gasping, needing more, more, _more_. 

Before he knows it, he’s coming again. Whatever drug is left in his system kicks up one last time and his mind whites out with a spectacular flash, all thought capacity seizing to function as his orgasm takes over. 

It must have been quite the last punch too. Once Joker blinks back to life—and he surely must have died for a second there, holy  _fuck_ _—,_ Batman’s in the middle of buckling him back in his sweaty seat. He’s even got his underwear on again. And though his darling still looks a little flush and winded, Batman’s suit is resettled, back to its usual proper state, no conspicuous stain in sight. A couple of minutes must have passed. Oh, no no, he _missed_ it. He missed seeing his Bat's beautiful face as pleasure overtakes him! 

As weak and tired as he feels, Joker gathers enough strength to utter, “I'm going to _kill_ Ivy when I see her.” 

Batman looks over at him and downright _smirks._ “Not while I’m alive.”

_"Cheeky."_

It must not come off as spiteful as Joker intends, because Batman’s smirk does not falter. “Dress up, I’m still taking you to a hospital. You’re not clear until a doctor says you are.” 

End of that argument. The engine purrs soon after and they move, slow as molasses at first, out of the snow bank that managed to form in such a short time. 

“Well.” Joker plays drowsily with the hem of his coat as Batman pointedly stares out the road, back to a neutral expression. “Aren’t you going to say anything _else_ about what just happened?“ 

For a few minutes, silence is his only answer. Though Joker knows it’s the cogs turning in his head, trying to piece together a good enough response. Something _boring,_ most likely, with deliberate detachment. Joker waits. 

Finally, the Bat delivers. 

“This is a _one-time_  incident,” the man drones, as stale and devoid of sentiment as per usual. “And it is _not,_ by any means, to be _encouraged._ It will not happen again."

Huffing, Joker tilts his head to the window and stares at his own reflection, glaring at the winter world for the hand he's been dealt with tonight. Just outside of his peripheral, however, he can see one gauntleted fist grip the steering wheel tighter. 

Yes, he decides with a secret smile, they will definitely fuck again. 


End file.
